by Cassie Miles
Eve watched as Blake listened without moving a muscle. Though she’d spent most of her childhood on and around army bases, she’d never been this close to a mission getting under way. Her dad had never shared the details of his assignments with her or Mom, and she hadn’t considered his clerical work as an information analyst to be very interesting. Certainly not dangerous.
Now she had to wonder if he’d been privy to the details of espionage. Not all the heroes in the military were Special Forces like Blake.
“I have one concern,” the general said. “If you discover that your father was killed by a veteran, leave his punishment to me.”
“Yes, sir,” Blake said.
She really didn’t think Dr. Ray had been killed by one of his veteran patients, unless one of those men was connected to the Prentice-Jantzen study. She asked, “General, how much do you know about Dr. Edgar Prentice?”
His steely blue eyes connected with hers. His face was expressionless; she couldn’t tell if her question had irritated him or aroused his curiosity.
He said, “I know Prentice worked with Blake’s dad.”
“Twenty-six years ago,” she said, “the army funded a study for Prentice and Dr. Ray. On in vitro fertilization.”
“Babies aren’t my field of expertise. My wife thinks I volunteered for overseas duty to avoid changing diapers.”
“How many children do you have?” she asked.
“Five. All girls.” A warm grin cracked his stony façade. “And I have three grandbabies. Two boys and another beautiful baby girl.”
He started walking again, and she fell into step. Their conversation had given her something to think about other than her outrageously inappropriate lust, and she was glad to find that her brain was capable of normal functioning.
Dr. Ray shared space in a small office with four desks. The only person in the room was a slight, thin man with wire-framed glasses. Though his identification badge identified him as Dr. Puller, he seemed too young to be a counselor. Another superbaby?
Dr. Puller was quick to shake Blake’s hand and offer his condolences. “We already packed up your father’s belongings,” he said. “I thought Connie, our unit secretary, delivered them to your house.”
“You’re correct,” Blake said. “She also delivered a pecan pie, and I owe her a thank-you.”
The thin man adjusted his glasses. “Was there something else?”
“A list of his patients,” Blake said.
“Those files are confidential. But Connie could check the records if you know who you’re looking for. I don’t think Dr. Ray was seeing anyone outside his regular group sessions. He only worked here one afternoon a week.”
Eve asked, “Did you ever sit in on his groups?”
“As often as I could. Dr. Ray brought more than skill to his sessions. A wisdom.” He shoved his hands into the pockets of his sweater vest. “I learned by observing him.”
His obvious respect for Dr. Ray made her think of the superbabies again. “Dr. Puller, how old are you?”
“Thirty-two.”
“You look younger,” she said.
“I know.” He gave a sheepish grin. “That’s why I wear the glasses. My wife says they make me look mature.”
She was relieved to know that he wasn’t one of the subjects of the study. They already had too many suspicious people to keep track of.
“We’re looking for a specific individual,” she said. “He might have been one of Dr. Ray’s patients. He’d be in his mid-twenties, born in New Mexico. We can’t give you a physical description, but he’s highly intelligent, gifted.”
Puller thought for a moment and shook his head. “Sorry. No one comes to mind.”
He took them to the main reception area and introduced them to Connie, who was clearly the brains of this particular unit. While Blake arranged for the secretary to send his father’s patient list to his computer, Eve considered the possibility that Dr. Ray had been murdered by a patient.
She didn’t have training in psychology, but it seemed logical that a murderer would have an abnormal personality and would, therefore, be seeking psychiatric help.
But Blake’s father hadn’t been attacked in a fit of homicidal rage. The crime had been premeditated; his records had been stolen. The murderer wanted to suppress the information in those files—a secret that was important enough to kill for.
BLAKE COULDN’T HAVE ASKED for a better vehicle.
In the officer’s parking lot, General Walsh glided his hand along the sleek lines of a midnight-blue Mercedes Benz sedan as he detailed the specifications. “She’s fully loaded with a V-8 engine and heavy-duty shocks. There’s a self-contained, untraceable GPS system and satellite phone. A steel-reinforced frame with an armored roof, floor and side panels. Bulletproof glass, of course, and a ballistic, self-sealing gas tank. You can drive this baby through a war zone and come out the other side without a scratch.”
The armored Mercedes was one hell of an upgrade from his dad’s serviceable, old station wagon. Blake approached the car with reverence. “I think I’m in love.”
“She’s a couple years old,” the general said, “but still a beauty.”
Eve asked, “How many miles per gallon?”
“Irrelevant,” Blake said.
“You know I drive a hybrid, and I work at a company developing solar energy systems. It’s important to be green.”
Not taking his eyes off the Mercedes, he replied, “Would you throw out the Mona Lisa because the paint wasn’t water soluble?”
“Your argument is illogical,” she said. “You’re justifying a questionable ecological decision based on aesthetics.”
“You’re saying that we should all drive ugly cars.”
“If it saves the planet, yes. There should never be a rationale for wasting our precious resources.”
He threw out an example he knew she’d understand. “Like all those resources wasted on the Hubble telescope? Do we really need a better photo of the Horse Nebula?”
“Oh.” She went silent.
The general circled around to the trunk and popped it open. “Back here, I stashed the equipment you requested.”
Blake checked out the extra guns, ammo, surveillance devices and infrared goggles—all useful tools that would help in investigating. But the Mercedes? It was beyond anything he ever expected. “I don’t know how to thank you, sir.”
“Your father was a good man. He helped a lot of soldiers. Now, it’s my turn to help you.”
“Excuse me.” Eve popped up beside him. “What is this sort of vehicle used for?”
“Secure protection. A couple of years ago, the Democratic National Convention was held in Denver. There were a lot of high-ranking individuals in town—men and women who were targets for terrorists.”
“And you used this vehicle to drive them around.”
“We had a whole fleet. This one, we kept.” He clapped Blake on the shoulder. “Do the right thing.”
Blake was so excited to get behind the wheel that he barely noticed Eve sliding into the passenger seat. He ogled the dashboard. There were as many dials as a cockpit but tastefully displayed in Mercedes Benz style.
When he turned the key in the ignition, the Mercedes hummed at a perfect pitch. Grinning like a lunatic, he glanced at Eve. “You might want to buckle up.”
“Why? Is this gas-guzzler going to sprout wings and fly?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised.”
Driving from the parking lot was like riding on a swift and powerful wind. The smooth leather seats cushioned his butt. The steering handled like a dream. He wanted to take this baby out on the open road. For the first time since he was told of his father’s murder, he felt something akin to pure joy.
“Well?” she asked. “Does the car live up to your expectations?”
“She’s amazing.” He glided to a stop at a light and turned his head toward her. “You look good in a Mercedes.”
“Uh-huh. You’d think a brain-suc
king zombie looked good in this car.”
“I mean it.” Nestled in fawn-colored leather, her T-shirt and denim jacket could pass for casual elegance. Her tousled blond hair almost appeared to have style. Most important, she was relaxed. The nervous intensity that plagued her this morning was gone.
When he turned right, she looked up. “This isn’t the most direct route to downtown.”
“I’m taking the highway,” he said. “Because I feel the need.”
“The need for speed,” she completed the quote. “Top Gun. My dad loves that movie.”
“Aviators can be a pain in the butt. But they are cool.”
She picked up the satellite phone. “I should try calling Prentice on this phone. He wouldn’t recognize the number.”
“Give it a shot.”
She plugged in the number and waited for an answer. “He’s not answering.”
“Right,” he mumbled. “That would be too easy.”
“Tell me about the doodads in the trunk.”
“High-tech surveillance equipment and weaponry. You’re going to like this stuff.”
“I’m not interested in guns, Blake. I’d rather have you show me how to defend myself without killing anybody.”
Avoiding serious harm to your opponent ran counter to his training. Not that he always fought to the death. But he never held back, no matter what the consequences.
Chapter Twelve
Eve had to admit that the tiny communication device fitted into her ear was a very cool gadget. She heard Blake clearly, even though he’d taken a position down the block from the restaurant where she was supposed to meet David Vargas.
In addition, she wore a microphone pin so Blake could hear what she said. The secret communication made her feel like a superspy. As she entered the Gilpin Grill in Cherry Creek North, she whispered, “I’m going inside.”
In her ear, Blake responded, “I know. I can see you. You don’t have to tell me everything.”
At the door, she was met by a host who whisked her to the leather-padded booth where Vargas awaited. He slid out from behind the table and greeted her with a kiss on both cheeks, which was not the way she usually said hello. Her typical lunch with the Sun Wave crew tended to be pizza or fast food. Not linen tablecloths and heavy silverware. Though many of the restaurant patrons, including Vargas, wore suits, she didn’t feel out of place in her denim jacket. This was casual Colorado where millionaires sometimes dressed in beat-up jeans and scruffy boots.
Vargas loosened his necktie, pulled it off and stuffed it into his pocket. “Excuse the corporate uniform. I had a meeting with attorneys this morning.”
“Tell me about your business.”
“Investments and properties, cashing in and cashing out. Not all that interesting.”
He gave her a warm, somehow charismatic smile. His features weren’t as perfectly symmetrical as Blake’s. His wide-spaced eyes and narrow chin made his face into an inverted triangle, like a cat. The streak of white in his black hair also seemed animalistic.
She noticed his widow’s peak—a genetic trait that she shared. Smiling back at him, she said, “It sounds like you work with numbers. That’s my field.”
“Right. You’re a math genius.”
“I wouldn’t say genius.”
“Don’t be modest.” He signaled to the waitress. “I looked you up. You’re well-respected in your field.”
She ordered water and checked out the pricey menu. While Vargas discussed wine with the waitress, she heard Blake in her ear. “Get him to talk about the study. He’s known for years about his genetic parents.”
Having him inside her head was disconcerting. He’d already penetrated her imagination. Images of his face, his arms, his chest and all the other parts played on a continuous loop.
Vargas leaned toward her. “Are you sure you don’t want to sample the wine?”
He wouldn’t be asking if he knew she was pregnant, which seemed to indicate that he wasn’t aware of her condition. On the other hand, he might be testing her. “Water’s fine. And I think I’ll have the free-range chicken salad.”
“I recommend the hamburger. It’s Kobe beef.” He pulled on his earlobe—a detached earlobe like hers and Blake’s.
“Chicken’s fine.” As far as she was concerned, the time for small talk was over. “Do you think we’re genetically related? You know, brother and sister?”
“You like to get right to the meat,” he said.
“Even if it’s not Kobe beef.”
His voice lowered to a confidential tone. “In the study, Dr. Prentice had a limited number of subjects to use as sperm and egg donors.”
He ran through the same logic that she and Blake had already figured out. She asked, “When you found out about the study, did you try to find your genetic parents?”
“Neither Dr. Ray nor Prentice would share that information. Their volunteers were promised that their identities would never be known. Safeguards were taken.”
Those volunteers probably never knew what happened after their initial contact with Prentice. Twenty-six years ago, the world was a very different place, with limited Internet access and information sharing. Less technology meant more privacy. More secrets.
In her ear, Blake said, “How does he know safeguards were taken? He’s holding something back.”
She should have caught that slip from Vargas. “How do you know? About the safeguards?”
His gray eyes widened slightly—only a millimeter, but it was enough to tell her that he was aware that he’d taken a misstep. “Numerical codes were used instead of names.”
“And you know this because…”
“I’ve seen the records.”
“You hacked into Prentice’s computer files,” she said. An excellent idea. “What did you find?”
“There were no names,” he said. “Not for the donors and not for the babies. Each individual was assigned a random number. After I had my own DNA run, I could compare. My biological parents are 73 and 15.”
The waitress brought his wine to the table, and he went through the ritual of swirling, sniffing and tasting. His attitude betrayed no sign of nervousness. He seemed to be in absolute control, leading her toward whatever conclusion suited his purposes.
She knew that his hacked data would provide a great more information than random numbers. Having Prentice’s files was how Vargas knew there were twenty-four babies. The DNA profiles would indicate gender, and he’d told her that there were only two females. Therefore, he had a fifty percent chance of knowing her relationship to him.
After the waitress left with their order, she rephrased her initial question. “Am I your sister?”
“Half sister.” He raised his wineglass to her in a toast. “We share the same mother.”
Apparently, she’d misread him from the start. Vargas hadn’t been flirting with her. He’d been…establishing a brotherly connection? Somehow, that didn’t seem right.
Family was important to her. And by family, she meant the mother and father who had raised her, the grandparents who had spoiled her, the aunts and uncles and cousins who had exchanged birthday cards. Vargas was nothing to her. And yet, he was genetically closer to her than any of those other people.
In her ear, Blake said, “I’ll be damned.”
“Just what I was thinking,” she responded.
“What?” Vargas asked.
“Nothing.” She pulled her thoughts together. “Knowing that you’re my half brother is disconcerting. It shouldn’t make a difference. Our relationship is nothing more than biology.”
“I feel something, too. When I saw you at the funeral and figured out who you were, I felt…” He rested his hand on his heart. “An inner warmth. I was happy that I’d found you.”
“Wait a minute, how do you know it’s me? The other female in the study could be the other woman.”
“You both have the same mother. Different fathers, though.”
Which meant that Eve had a half sis
ter. If she hadn’t been pregnant, she would have drained his wineglass and asked for more. A gallon more. “Where is she?”
“I don’t know her name,” he said. “The parents who raised us were all in the military, which meant they moved around a lot. And women are harder to trace than men. They get married and change their names.”
“Have you located other men who were in the study?”
“I guessed about Blake. And there were a couple of guys at the funeral. Dr. Trevor Latimer?”
In her ear, Blake said, “Don’t confirm.”
She knew that. Loose lips sink ships. “What made you think he was one of us?”
“He’s our age and already an OB-GYN with a thriving practice, which indicates high intelligence. Here’s an odd coincidence. I’m a part-owner of the building where he has his offices.”
“You’ve met him before.”
“No. First time I saw him was the funeral.”
She didn’t believe in coincidence. It seemed far more likely that Vargas knew about his relationship to Latimer and solidified the connection by being his landlord. “Do you own many buildings like his?”
“I’m part of an investment group that owns forty-seven commercial properties in and around Denver,” he said. “Which leads me to a proposition I wanted to discuss with you.”
“Proposition?”
In her ear, Blake said, “Don’t let him get you off track. Bring him back to the study.”
There might have been a clever way to navigate these waters and lead the conversation back to the study, but she lacked that skill, especially when facing somebody like Vargas. With his business talent, he must have been a genius when it came to negotiations.
Her only ploy was being direct. “No proposition. Not now. I want to talk more about the study.”
His smile was pure charm. “Whatever you want. Ask your questions.”
“About Prentice’s data,” she said. “I’d like to take a look at the DNA profiles.”
“Give me your e-mail, and I’ll send a copy as soon as I get back to my office.”
It occurred to her that he’d hacked into Prentice’s files and was likely to do the same to hers. Not that she had any deep, dark secrets in her personal files. But the loss of privacy concerned her.
